We regularly make pizza, and it is always mushroom and pepperoni. Sometimes there is a sneaky sun-dried tomato or a splodge of blue cheese, but the main theme does not vary. Pete makes the base and I make the topping. Either of us does the assembly work. Tonight Pete assembled, and he likes to put some of the cheese on top, which I think makes it look less attractive. Doesn’t stop it from being delicious, though.

Bernard hasn’t eaten much today, but did make short work of a kiwi fruit at teatime.

Chips have become something of an UborkaHaza standard lately. I peel the spuds in the afternoon and leave them in a bowl of water, which soaks some of the starch out. Pete coats them in oil and cooks them in the oven at 200, along with the sausages or pie or whatever I found in the freezer the day before.

Tonight it was Sainsbury’s Taste The Difference British Pork Sausages with Caramelised Onion, which is a lot of capital letters for one packet of bangers. They were nice, but the sicilian ones we had last week were better. They were served with organic carrots, peas and gravy.

Earlier, Bernard and I had a strong disagreement about whether or not he would eat his chicken. He wore most of it, and then sweetly scoffed all of his pureed fruit compote for pudding. I don’t know whether this should be discouraged or not; I don’t want him to be hungry.

One evening, a lifetime ago, I was sitting on an uncomfortable sofa at 3am, crying in pain while I tried to feed Bernard for probably the third time that night. I set a date by which I would start to use formula, if it was still making me so miserable. The date wasn’t very far away, and just doing that helped me to relax a bit. It hurt so very, very much, and I was so tired.

I didn’t even notice the day I reached my goal, and now at eight months old, I’m still feeding, and I’m enjoying it. It’s so satisfying to know that I’ve still got such a good source of nutrition and comfort for the little fellow, and way better than faffing with bottles and sterilisers. It was a bit of a worry when he refused to drink formula while he’s in daycare, but we found a solution: water. He gets extra dairy products in the form of yoghurt and cheese, and has plenty of milk when he’s at home.

Meanwhile, I have applied to the NCT to train as a breastfeeding counsellor. From where I’m sitting, there seems to be a real need for more help, to counter the misinformation, and to provide support in those awful first few days and weeks, and to raise awareness both so that more people breastfeed for longer, and so that British society becomes more welcoming and understanding, to make it easier for mothers.

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I don’t know if that’s good Italian or not. Anyway, the veg box came today, so we have been feasting on delicious vegetables. No broccoli, hurrah!

Tonight’s dinner was spaghetti with a sauce made from sauteed garlic, organic leek and organic mushroom, with some sneaky bits of very unorganic smoked sausage, which I love. Secret ingredients included lots of black pepper, a pinch of thyme, and a slug of hungarian chilli vodka. Then it was smothered with mascarpone cheese, which went all runny.

Bernard also had pasta with organic spring vegetable stew, which consisted of potato, leek, carrot, mushroom, cabbage, tomato and garlic, with fennel and oregano. I blitzed it with my new stick blender, and he scoffed the lot. I gave him half a kiwi fruit for pudding, and he managed to eat about half of the slices, but was very shouty and cross, so I supplemented this with the pureed fruit compote that I made yesterday, and then he sat on the floor beside the sofa and played with an empty envelope for half an hour before bathtime.

I think we now agree that quinoa is a superfood. Pete watched me prepare it tonight, and was impressed at how much it expands, and interested in the part of the process where the germ separates and all the water is suddenly absorbed.

Quinoa has a much better flavour than cous cous, although cous cous does have a great texture. It is also much, much more expensive. So, it was mixed up in a bowl with bacon, grilled halloumi cheese, avocado, and sliced cherry tomatoes. Over it, we drizzled a dressing of olive oil, lemon juice, white wine vinegar and fennel seeds. It was delicious, the sort of meal that I want to eat all over again, as soon as it is finished. Sadly there were no leftovers.

Earlier on, Bernard had vomited up his entire bedtime feed, which at least answered my concern about how much milk he is getting. I reckon there was over half a pint, which came back in an Aira Force-esque gush, precipitating a full change of my nightwear, and a clean sleeping bag for the baby. I have no idea why. I hope it was just a random weirdness.